


I Come With Guns

by EvilShtriga



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Crying, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gunplay, HYDRA Trash Party, Humiliation, Knifeplay, M/M, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Vomiting, improper use of guns and rifles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 12:10:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6005392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilShtriga/pseuds/EvilShtriga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Here,” he says, drawing the gun toward you. “I know you love this thing. Show me how much.”</p>
<p>It takes a moment to process what he means, but then you obediently lean forward and lay a slow, hesitant kiss on the barrel. Rumlow nods and urges you to proceed with a motion of his hand. You press your lips against the cold metal of the SIG and hold for a while, eyes locked on the other man’s face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Come With Guns

**Author's Note:**

> I actually wrote this piece of garbage a few months ago and totally forgot about its existence.
> 
> Happy Valentine's Day, trash friends! :D

The door slides open and you enter the room. It’s empty, the techs are not here yet, but the chair awaits, ominously towering over the room even though it’s not the highest thing in here.

You mechanically remove all your weapons and lay them on the table in order. First the Skorpion. You unfasten the straps of the vest and place the gun on the edge of the table. Then the Glock 19 holstered on your belt. Then come the precious friends inhabiting the thigh holsters: the COP .357, the P220, the TEC-38. And, finally, the knives. The Yari II, the 176BK, and your favorite Mark II, which you flip in the air before putting it down with a faint smile. The last moment of pleasure before you give back all the equipment, because of course none of it is yours, even though you like every piece more than its actual owners. You are also more skilled in its usage than its owners, but then, this is exactly why they let you use any of these things. They wouldn’t if there were someone better than you.

Once all the weapons are set aside, you continue to undress. The belt and holsters, followed by the leather jacket, the bulletproof vest and the turtleneck, they all land on another table. Then you unlace you boots, slide them under the table. Last you remove the goggles and the mask, you put them on the neatly folded jacket and approach the chair.

You sit in it without a moment’s hesitation, both arms placed on the armrests, your back pressed to the leather behind you, muscles relaxed. You wait.

The techs arrive. They move both tables aside and, having briefly checked on your body, run some tests on the cybernetic arm. You don’t listen when they discuss settings and parameters; after all, they know what they’re doing. If they need your input, they’ll tell you to provide it, but right now you don’t expect them to. The arm works fine, the mission was completed and all that’s left is waiting for the Secretary to arrive.

You expect to see him when the door opens again, but the man who enters the room is Rumlow. You’re confused. The hell does the STRIKE team want from you now? You’ve completed the mission, haven’t you?

The techs look equally surprised, but they go on about their business when Rumlow shakes his head and casually walks toward the tables with the Winter Soldier’s gear.

You watch him curiously and the man glances back, a mysterious smile on his face. There’s something intimidating about it. That is, more intimidating than usual. He doesn’t say a word until the techs are done and gone from the room.

Then he grabs the P220 and admires it for a moment, ostentatiously turning it in his hand at different angles.

“Pretty thing, huh?”

You blink a few times, wondering if you’re supposed to answer. Rumlow looks at you but doesn’t scold nor warn against disobedience, so probably not.

“I bet you like it. Its perfect weight in your hand, the intoxicating feeling of power in your heart, the fear in people’s eyes. You could make people kneel before you as long as you hold it, right?” He approaches you, fiddling with the gun as he crosses the room. His voice is calm, somehow on the verge of a chant, although the melody sends shivers down your spine.

Then his tone changes. “Get out of that chair and kneel.”

You do as you’re told, your mind spinning. The position and the angle of your view are familiar, but there’s something off about the situation. You let your eyes dart from Rumlow’s face to his hands and to his fly, as the man stands in front of you, but you don’t dare move without a direct order.

“Here,” he says, drawing the gun toward you. “I know you love this thing. Show me how much.”

It takes a moment to process what he means, but then you obediently lean forward and lay a slow, hesitant kiss on the barrel. Rumlow nods and urges you to proceed with a motion of his hand. You press your lips against the cold metal of the SIG and hold for a while, eyes locked on the other man’s face.

“Oh, come on, I know you can do better than this. Give it some… feeling. Thank this pretty gun properly for the sense of power it grants you.”

You pause for a second, then stick out your tongue so that Rumlow can see clearly, and gently lick the frame. You move up until you press the tip of your tongue into the muzzle, trying to fit in as much of your flesh as you can. It would be more effective with a bigger gun, still, you do your best to please Rumlow. Technically he’s not your handler, he’s never been one per se, but that doesn’t matter. He’s the one in power here and you owe him obedience.

“Nice,” he whispers as you double your efforts to force your tongue deeper into the barrel, “but you can drop the show. I know you want more. Go for it.”

This time you don’t hesitate. A veiled order is still an order and stands until you’re told to stop, and you know Rumlow well enough to interpret his words just right.

You open your mouth and lean forward, reaching for the gun. It’s cold and unfamiliar between your teeth, so unlike anything you’re used to having poked in there, but for some reason nickel tastes nice, so nice you willingly suck at the gun.

It’s weird how a piece of metal feels so safe and comfortable in your tongue. It’s fucking meant to kill people, to tear deadly holes in their vulnerable bodies, rip their arteries and let the precious blood leak out or choke whoever it kept alive only seconds earlier. There are other things whose sole purpose is to bring physical pleasure, whether rubber of flesh or anything else, but somehow none of these is true for you. The weapon feels good and toys and cocks bring nothing but shame and pain, loads of pain.

You chew on the P220, careful and gentle at first, but when you look up at Rumlow and see approval etched in his face, you bite harder, like you could actually dent the steel with your teeth. You dimly remember you once did the same thing with your metal arm, prompted by one of your handlers, but you ended up retching all over the lab. You were punished for it, of course, but no one has made you fuck your face with your own arm ever since.

But a metal gun is nothing like a metal hand. A frame is nothing like a palm and a barrel in nothing like fingers. The gun doesn’t make you feel like you’d prefer to reach down all the way to your stomach and just empty it manually because this would be quicker and less painful than heaving and rolling on the floor in the effort to control your body. No. You’re so accustomed to guns all around your body that their presence inside seems just a logical continuation, almost comforting in its predictability. Suddenly you realize your pants are growing tight, but you don’t dare do anything about it. You move your head back and forth, letting the gun slide in and out of your mouth until Rumlow grabs a handful of your hair and tells you to stop.

You freeze and let him take the SIG away, though the loss almost physically hurts. He returns with the Skorpion and leans over you, his face only inches away from yours.

“You love this one just as much, don’t you?” he breathes and traces your jawline with the barrel, then tilts your head upward using it as a lever. You look directly into his eyes and nod slightly, letting the Skorpion’s muzzle dig into the soft flesh under your jaw. “Then love it.”

He moves the gun backwards, giving you access, and you curl your lips around the barrel, then suck at it, contemplating the difference between the Skorpion and the P220. Of course, you feel all the differences in using these weapons, the range, the rate of fire, you even remember how the grip of each of them feels in your hand, but this is something new.

The shape is so different you might never have taken it for the same kind of object if you didn’t know better.

The Skoprion also tastes different from the SIG-Sauer. You’d like to analyze the exact difference, but Rumlow gives it a sudden push and thrusts the barrel deeper into your mouth. You instinctively try to withdraw but he blocks your head with his hand.

“No, don’t fight it, this will only break your teeth.”

You stop pulling back and open your mouth wide while he starts moving the gun again. The pleasure is gone in an instant. The barrel slides up and down your tongue until it reaches its back and you start choking, fighting and not fighting at the same time, desperately trying not to make things worse, and yet unable not to react at all.

Rumlow grabs you tight by the hair and holds your head in place, still relentlessly shoving the gun into your mouth and pulling it out just a little, just enough to make it quite bearable, then thrusting it further and bringing the blinding sensation of fear and discomfort along with the move of the barrel.

Tears well up in your eyes and you can hardly breathe, but there’s nowhere to go, neither physically nor mentally.

He pushes the Skorpion forward and holds it still, lifting your head by the hair so high that you can’t move despite the surge of panic exploding in your heart as you choke and choke on the metal. It can’t last very long, but when he removes the gun with a swift motion and lets go of your hair, you double over, fighting for control.

There’s none to be found, you try to calm down your breathing pattern and not throw up at the same time.

“You’re pathetic.” Rumlow’s voice is a sneer. He puts a heavy-booted leg on your back and presses you down. It’s hard to lie down when you’re on your knees, but you find a compromise between the two positions.

The first time Rumlow swings the Skorpion and spanks you with it, your mind automatically thinks you’ve made a mistake. Then you realize you haven’t and he still would have positioned you like this, only it would probably hurt some more.

He slaps you five more times, then lets out a sigh of frustration. You hear him walk away, toward the tables with the Winter Soldier’s gear, but you don’t dare shift by an inch to look at what he’s up to.

“The Yari or the Mark?” he asks, but again you don’t think you’re supposed to answer, so you stay silent. He’ll take whichever knife he’ll want to. Rumlow ponders the choice, then walks back to you. “I chose the Yari. Strip.”

A few minutes ago you would have welcomed that last command, but now you’re not as enthusiastic. You rise and fumble with your pants, trying not to look at the knife in Rumlow’s hand, not to think about why exactly somebody is telling you to undress while holding a sharp object. The only explanation that comes to your mind is so scary you actually hesitate for a brief moment. Which scares you even more, because if there’s anything that can make things even worse, it’s certainly disobedience.

Still, you can’t force yourself to slide the damn pants down and Rumlow notices your problem.

“I gave you an order,” he growls, the look on his face something between angry and amused. You start to tremble, but manage to control your hands enough to make the pants fall to the floor. Then you tuck your thumbs into your underpants and slide them down in one swift motion, absolutely certain that if you don’t get this done quickly, you will either be punished for delay or get stuck and freeze, and then be even more severely punished.

Once naked, you stand straight, shaking all over. You don’t realize you’ve folded your hands over your crotch until Rumlow starts laughing. There’s something paralyzing and really creepy in his voice.

He approaches you with a wicked grin. “Oh, you think I’m gonna geld you?” He whistles. “Now that’s a tempting idea, but I’m afraid such a procedure would affect some of your useful functionalities.” He’s now only inches away from you, fiddling with the Yari dangerously close to your skin.

“Remove those,” he says, pricking your flesh hand with the tip of the blade. You let your arms drop to your sides. “Good.”

He reaches down and cups one of your balls with his left hand, then lazily slides the blunt edge of the knife along your thigh. “You’d still be functional with just one, you know?”

You don’t like the way he licks his lips.

The Yari is the only thing that’s moving for an all-too-long moment, the cold steel freezing your blood as it climbs your leg and drops down as low and the extended arm will allow in a continuous cycle. Then Rumlow’s left thumb joins the dance, the slow circles rubbed over your ball make you gasp and your shaking becomes more pronounced.

You don’t even try to stop the tears gathering in your eyes as your cock gets harder.

You hate everything about Rumlow and this room, you hate your second-favorite knife, and most of all, you hate your very self, your fucking body that chose to betray you like this. You want to pull away from the touch so badly you forget to control yourself and actually try.

Rumlow squeezes your ball and you cry out in pain, obediently pressing back into his hand. His moves are gentle again but the pain rages on, hot and blinding.

Then the chilly caress of the Yari is gone. So is Rumlow’s hand.

He circles you and you feel his stare on your skin almost physically. There’s no time for relief that he’s decided not to mutilate you just yet, not while he runs the blade along your spine and tells you to get on your knees again.

You drop on the floor and let him press your head against the cold tiles. You wait for him to discard the knife and take up another gun or maybe finally unzip his fly and be done with you sooner than later. He does neither.

He sits down next to you and shows you the Yari.

“Want to lick it?” he asks the way one might ask about the weather. You try to swallow the lump in your throat before opening your mouth, but he just shrugs. “No? Well, that’s a shame.”

He reaches behind you and a sudden realization hits you so hard you let out a weak sob even before he slips the knife inside you. Then you remember to be silent and press your lips together as he slowly pushes the handle (you’re so grateful it’s the handle) deeper. It hurts and he’s taking his time, moving the knife in an out a fraction of an inch, hardly giving you time to adjust.

“You love it, don’t you?” He leaves the knife in your ass and traces his hand down your thigh. Then he fetches back the Skorpion and resumes his position behind you. “Hey, you think if I aim at the tip of the blade and shoot, I’ll push the knife all the way inside?”

He reloads the gun, you would recognize this sound anywhere, then there’s the characteristic crack of his knees as he lowers himself, but you can’t see if he’s actually aiming at you from your position on the floor.

“Should I pull the trigger?”

His voice betrays fascination. He’d genuinely like to shoot and see what happens. You can’t control yourself anymore, shaking all over and whimpering like a dog at its master’s feet. Please, no. You’ll gladly let him fuck you any way he wants, you’ll be good and obedient. Well, of course you will, no matter his choice regarding the shot.

He stands up and approaches you, his boots right before your face. He lowers the Skorpion and runs its barrel along your lips. You quickly try to grab a mouthful of the gun but he’s faster and shifts it beyond your reach, letting the muzzle kiss your neck.

“So eager, so hungry. But wait patiently, little bitch, there’s no rush today.”

You freeze for a second, processing the new piece of information. This certainly isn’t good news. Times like this, Rumlow was usually in a hurry, he’d take what he wanted and he’d leave before the Secretary arrived. It’s not like he didn’t know, because of course he did, and he didn’t give a fuck; you could be anything to anyone as long as you are useful to him.

But if today is different, maybe he cancelled his visit? Or maybe he’ll just be late. Dammit, you’d like him to arrive as soon as possible. The sooner he’s here, the sooner Rumlow will let you go.

Right now, he runs the Scorpion down your spine. You remember the gun is still loaded when he pokes your balls with it, a quick reminder to behave yourself. Just in time, because next he punches the Yari and the knife shifts inside you so unexpectedly that you shudder, barely suppressing a moan.

Worse still, you get harder again.

The metallic clink of the barrel meeting the blade means he taps on the knife with the Scorpion. Somehow the sound is much worse than the feeling. After all, the knife’s handle isn’t that big, it doesn’t move violently. You’ve had worse. The sound, however, reminds you of some eerie triangle.

You shudder at the thought of a musical instrument. You still remember the pan flute they once used on you. You also remember the pathetic sound the kid who had played it made when they taught him not to accidentally sneak into Hydra safe houses again. He never did. They fucked him and killed him.

Then they made you…

You double over and throw up as the memory of that night resurfaces.

Rumlow viciously removes the Yari from your ass and slaps you with the Scorpion, but he’s too distant, you hear him like he’s five hundred yards away; the pain he can inflict on you right now is nothing compared to the hell raging in your mind.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been out, lost in the maze of thoughts and memories, but the pain that brings you back to the real world, to the here and now and to Rumlow, is excruciating.

He lets you go and you land on your back, hardly able to breathe. Rumlow stands over you, his face even uglier than usual with the sheer fury etched in it. There’s a stun baton in his left hand and a rifle in the right one.

“Get up,” he growls and kicks you hard in the ribs. You roll onto your knees and straighten your back. The ringing in your head slowly fades away and you begin to realize just how much trouble you must have gotten yourself into.

Rumlow doesn’t even bother to throw curses at you. It’s bad. Fuck, it’s really, really bad.

You bend forward when he walks behind you, the quiet smirk betraying his approval. He slams something into you again and while you’re sure it’s not the Yari, because the object is much bigger and the way your muscles stretch around it is much more painful, you have no idea what exactly it is.

Rumlow tugs at it, pulling the thing out a little bit, then forces it back in, deeper than before. Then again and again, chaotically, in no particular rhythm but at different angles, so you get no chance to adjust. You just writhe in pain, hating the weakness of your mind for allowing the damn memory to control you, hating your body for making you hard like you actually enjoy any of this.

You don’t know how long it lasts, but you’re raw and damn sure you’re bleeding halfway through the process. You try not to shame yourself further, but no matter what you do, you can’t blink away the tears gathering in your eyes nor hush the sobs that escape your mouth.

The whimpering sound won’t subside even after Rumlow pulls out whatever he was fucking you with, the pain in the abused emptiness all new, somehow worse than what it was a moment earlier.

There’s no time to adjust and rest, no time to gather your thoughts, no way to escape or delay the continuation of your punishment. Because you do know this is your punishment, it’s not about Rumlow getting off anymore. Well, you kind of asked for it, so you shouldn’t be surprised. Terrified, on the other hand, is an absolutely valid reaction.

“Now make that metal shit useful and hold this.” He hands you the rifle and you recognize it as an old Barrett M82, and you haven’t used a Barrett for quite some time now, so he must have brought the rifle on purpose, just for you. You take it and open your mouth, asking the silent question. Rumlow doesn’t answer; he puts one hand on your metal wrist and grabs you by the hair with the other.

“Be good this time or I swear I’ll teach you a thing or two about real pain. You’ll be begging for a wipe when I’m done with you.” His voice is soft and calm and the smile he paints on his face is almost nice.

It makes you shiver again and you let him guide you. There’s some degree of safety in this, just obeying the pressure on your arm and head, not having to choose and bear the responsibility for the choices. It takes a moment to figure out how to maneuver the rifle when on your knees and all, but once you get a hang of it, once you rest the recoil pad on the floor and tilt the entire rifle, you slip the barrel into your mouth. Fortunately, the thing has the muzzle brake removed, so the barrel fits in easily enough.

You can feel your cock getting harder as soon as the metal connects with your flesh.

Rumlow is gentle at first, he lets you go slow and, in return, you try to make it as sensual as you can. He likes it when you lick and suck, so you move your tongue around the barrel and you press your lips hard against the steel and suck like your life depends on it. Perhaps it does.

You slide the weapon in and out; the steady rhythm allows your mind to wander a bit. The feeling is both shameful and thrilling. You’ve shot this kind of rifle on more than one occasion and its weight feels familiar in your arms, but you’ve never been on this side of its barrel.

You don’t think many people have been this close to this side of the barrel either, but it doesn’t matter as long as the pain is manageable – and right now there’s no pain in your mouth, only the lingering burning in your ass. It’s bearable when you have something else to focus on.

Well, you do.

You pick up speed as Rumlow tugs at your hair more fiercely and pushes your metal wrist towards your face, forcing the barrel to enter deeper. It’s moments before it slams against your throat and your body starts to rebel against the unnatural fullness. You choke and fight the urge to empty your stomach once again. You can’t let that happen this time. If you do, there will be consequences, and you’ve already been bad today.

Rumlow removes his hands and you hesitate. He doesn’t protest when you gradually slow down and finally withdraw the rifle, your mouth blissfully empty and the weapon itself somehow lighter in your grip.

“I thought you liked the Barrett, but you know what? You might be right, time to get to some more serious business.”

He grabs it and tosses it away, not caring about the noise he makes nor possible damage of lab equipment or even the rifle.

He stands next to the table with the weapons and clothes, holding another gun. The P220 again.

“Come here,” he orders. You move on your knees, not sure if you’re allowed to stand up and cross the distance in a less submissive way.

He opens his fly and strokes himself to hardness, the pistol still in his other hand. You open up before he tells you to and wait patiently until he’s ready to slide inside.

He doesn’t bother to play it nice, after all, you’ve had enough warm-up. Without explicit instruction you just try to stay still, letting him do as he pleases. It’s enough for a while and you just go with it mechanically adjusting to his thrusts. It’s easy, it’s something you’ve done countless times before. It feels safe.

Until you hear a click, and there’s only one thing so close to you that clicks like that.

Rumlow stops moving and puts the gun to your head. The way he smiles makes you want to spit him out, but then he nudges your cock with his boot and the tension becomes less and less bearable. You really want to suppress the moan, but your body betrays you in more ways than one.

The P220 held against your temple doesn’t stop you from leaking as Rumlow thrusts again and again, faster, harder, deeper, changing the angle every now and then. You know you won’t last too long now, not after he touched you.

He knows it just as well.

“Oh, no, don’t you dare,” he warns, tapping the barrel of the SIG on your head.

You fall into a rhythm, desperately fighting for control you’re not sure you have. Another touch of Rumlow’s boot is all it takes for you to learn your uncertainty was well-grounded.

You spill all over Rumlow’s pants.

He thrusts even deeper, his other hand holding you tight by the hair, and you gag, but there’s nowhere to run from the feeling, nothing you can do but take him in and swallow when he comes.

He pulls away and kicks you in the stomach. You fall backwards and throw up again, covering your chest and the floor around with Rumlow’s come and some remnants of your meal.

Then, suddenly, the door opens and the Secretary enters the room. You catch a quick peripheral glimpse before he walks over to Rumlow. There’s tension and assessment in the silence that follows his arrival, but you don’t dare look at them until Pierce speaks.

“Are you done? Then leave.”

You watch Rumlow’s face twitch, disappointment all too clear to miss.

“Sir, if I may ask…”

“You’ve already had your share of my pet. A generous one, as I can see.”

“Yes, sir, you’re right.” The Secretary only smiles in response. “I’ll leave now.”

Rumlow gives you an ugly smile and zips his fly. He’s gone in less than ten seconds. You look up at the Secretary, not sure what to expect.

He sits down in the chair usually occupied by one of the techs.

“Such a mess.” He sighs, looking around the lab. You lower yourself on the floor, tears welling up in your eyes. It’s your mess, after all. Your puke, your come, your blood. Even the weapons that you were allowed to use are scattered around.

He beckons you closer and you crawl until you sit in front of him, your chin only inches away from his knees.

“I know it’s not your fault, I won’t make you clean it.”

The relief that washes over you must be very clear because the Secretary graces you with an endearing smile. He reaches out and puts his hand on your head, and strokes you gently as you melt into the friendly touch, almost closing your eyes. You’re so grateful for his arrival that you let a few stray tears slide down your cheeks.

“What is it, little pet? Tell me.”

It takes a moment to work up enough courage to say it and you hate yourself for how you feel, because you shouldn’t be afraid of this man, he’s been nothing but good to you, he’s kind and gentle and his touch doesn’t hurt like Rumlow’s touch hurts, but still you feel some kind of misplaced reserve.

“I-I missed you, master.”

“I know you did.” He slides his hand down and gently rubs your throat. It makes you hard again, but for the first time you don’t perceive it is a betrayal and you don’t want to run away from it. It feels natural and you know the Secretary deserves it for all the good things he gives you. “Do you want to show me how much?”

**Author's Note:**

> I used the IMFDB list and some cosplay reference image I found on Tumblr to choose the equipment for this fic, but I know nothing about guns (other than "wow they look cool and are also deadly" :D), so if I got something terribly wrong, please tell me so I can fix it!


End file.
